


tell me what you know about night terrors

by apocryphiend (sweet_juju_magumbo)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: #teamfreedreams, Dreams, M/M, MCD is not real, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9841139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_juju_magumbo/pseuds/apocryphiend
Summary: Cas, Dean says,Cas, you’re a garden! You’re the springtime!(MCD only part of a dream, friends, i'm not quite that cruel yet)





	

Dean dreams. 

He dreams, and it’s something beautiful, at first. The sky is bright, clear, calm, and it’s like he’s swimming in it, it’s like it carries him. The sunlight falls like snow on his skin, warm and blinding, where it catches in his hair, on his lashes, where he tastes it sweet and sharp on his tongue.

And then Cas is there, from nowhere, from everywhere. He smiles and smiles and smiles at Dean, smiles so wide Dean can feel it in his cheeks. Cas looks up and opens his eyes, wide, and he drains the sky, drinks up all that deep blue, swallows down the sun and lets it seep out between his teeth.

Cas holds out his hand, and Dean reaches for him, but a flower sprouts, lush, red, in the middle of his palm. Tender green vines creep their way up his arm, and blooms follow blooms, red, pink, blue, yellow, every color possible, leaves fan out gracefully, quivering gently in the laden air.

_Cas_ , Dean says, _Cas, you’re a garden! You’re the springtime!_

Cas just laughs, and Dean reaches for the flowers, wants to hold that new life in his hands, but they dance away from him, disconnect, float out on the air, spinning dizzily, in orbit around Cas. Slowly, they come to rest, floating, still, around Cas’ head, a jubilant halo.

Cas walks toward him and gone, for a moment, are the flowers, gone, the light, and his smile with it — suddenly, the wind is howling all around, dark symbols scream at him from the shadows, and step after step something menacing approaches. 

Sparks and fire and cold, cold blue smoke rain down as the monstrosity grows and grows, and he realizes that the sparks are pouring out of a face that he used to know, streaming devastating and razor-sharp from its eyes and its mouth, and Dean wants to fight, wants to run, but his lungs are breathing in that cold, cold blue smoke and he feels the freeze bite down tight on his veins.

Dean feels the blood bursting under his skin, watches it cascade out to soak the ground at his feet, listens to the crumbling of his bones as an earthquake spreads out from the center of him, out from where the once-familiar face sings to him, something ear-splitting, something enormous and crystalline and unbearably clean. His brain claws at the back of his eyes, tries to pry his sight away from the face that shifts treacherously, that grins grotesquely as a mountain in pain, contorts impossibly into a ravenous joy, saw-toothed and gleaming.

A great, shadowy hand reaches out for Dean, and the symbols stir themselves into a terror, whipping mercilessly across his skin, tearing through his body, bullets barbed and furious, wailing like drowning men as the hand closes, tight-fisted, around him. Every sense explodes into bright, crushing light, into the endlessness of being stretched to nothing.

With the thunder of wings, he’s wrenched back, hurtled into something soft. Cas is in front of him, so close, with his hand on Dean’s face, so gentle that he cries with it. The vines curl out from Cas’ arm to lap up his tears, tiny blossoms feeding off of that starving thing inside him, leaving it, leaving _him_ , shivering, shaking rough with hunger.

Cas is still smiling, incandescent, and he’s speaking but Dean can’t understand a single thing he says, can’t hear more than the rustle of petals and the itchy, organic creak of the vines that spread and spread across Cas’ body, weaving patterns distinct and indecipherable. 

It’s a surprise when Cas kisses him. It’s a surprise that it’s deep, and rough, and wet. It’s a surprise that it’s _wanting_ , that Cas _wants him_ , that Cas wants anything at all with a smile like that. Dean’s hands are still tangled in the vines, in Cas’ hair, when Cas pulls away.

_Enough_ , he seems to say. _Be content. This is all that I may give to you._

Or maybe Dean just made that up, because the din of the flowers and the vines that swirl lazily around them has grown clamorous in the wake of their kiss. Cas still stands so, so close, so Dean keeps one hand at his waist while the other gathers flowers from the air. They are too numerous, now, to avoid his quick fingers, and he threads them carefully into Cas’ hair, twines them cleverly within his curls, nestles one behind his ear.

_You are everything, Cas_ , Dean wants to say, but the words catch in his throat, because Cas’ eyes are closed, now. The color has drained from his face, though a small smile remains. The rush of the flowers around him is now riotous, all shrieking flight, and the vines stumble over themselves in their haste as they climb Cas’ neck.

Dean’s tongue is gone, or there is no air left to breathe, or his heart has stopped, he doesn’t know, but he does know that he has to get Cas back to him. He has to bring him back. 

He tries to call him home, back here, with Dean, where he belongs, not somewhere far away where the sun no longer shines settled deep within his throat. Not somewhere where the burning blue sky is only a memory. Not anywhere else. _Here, Cas, please be here, please come back. To me. Please come home._

Dean tears, frantic, terrified, at the vines that crowd themselves onto Cas’ face. He tries to keep them from filling his nose, his eyes, his mouth, tries to leave him space to see, to breathe. But the vines are faster and stronger and tear his fingers to the bone.

He fights and fights and fights until he’s blown away by some terrible wind, blown far away, and can only watch as Cas drifts, fresh, green, still, among the whirring blossoms.

Dean dreams, and when he wakes, he can’t so much as scream. He can’t so much as breathe.


End file.
